


Match

by emungere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Gangbang, M/M, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this kink meme prompt:<br/>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=14186409#t14186409</p><p>"Uni!John was in the rugby team. After getting a bit drunk he agress to let his team 'have some fun with him' but after a few guys he askes them to stop. They carry on."</p><p>DS Lestrade finds him afterward. They help each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Match

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Louiselux for beta and britpick.

John is drunk and happy about it. They've won, had a few at the local, back to Tim's place for more beers and celebratory scotch. John's on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, his mates' legs on either side on him. Die Hard's on the telly. 

It's a good moment in his life, and when Christian says, "Hey, John, you're a bit of a poof, aren't you?" John just nods agreeably. He is indeed, a bit. Maybe forty percent. 

Christian's knee nudges against his shoulder. "You like it, then? Sucking cock?" 

"I really do," John says, smiling at the memory of the most recent dick he's had in his mouth, just two days ago, a friend of a friend in the loo at a party. Can't remember his name, but the dick was memorable, long and thick and unexpectedly circumcised. Quite nice. 

"Want to suck mine?" 

"What?" John blinks up at him, up at Christian's cock where it is now free of his trousers and half hard. 

"I said do you fancy getting your mouth round this?" Christian gives it a little squeeze, and it gets harder. "I was gonna go have a wank in Tim's room, but you're right here." 

John can feel other eyes on him, his mates all waiting to see what he'll do. It's stupid, probably, but John's always had this little bit of him that says _go on, do it, take a risk._

"Yeah, all right," he says, gets up on his knees between Christian's legs and takes his cock right down until John's lips push against Christian's hand and Christian is gasping and swearing. 

"Fuck, _fuck_ , you-- You fucking homo, what the hell!" He says it with such awe that half the room is laughing at him, at his amazement over how bloody good John is. It's actually brilliant. 

John pushes his hand out of the way and takes him deeper, right down, cockhead pushing at John's throat for bare seconds before Christian starts to come. 

John licks his lips. "Too easy," he says. 

More laughter at Christian's expense. John feels good, and when someone tugs him up onto the couch by his hair, he goes willingly enough. 

"That's not on," Tim says. "You've got every bloke in the room at half mast with that performance. No fair if you don't follow through." 

He's got his zip down, got John stretched out across Christian's and Aiden's laps. Tim works his trousers down and gets his cock free of his pants, and John's mouth is watering. 

He's a bit of a cock slut, actually. He can own up to it. And they're his team, his mates, so it'll be okay. He inches forward and takes the head between his lips, sucking strongly. 

Tim groans and presses at the back of John's head, makes him sink down deeper, which makes John moan. There are hands pushing his shirt up now, Aiden's he thinks, and working at his belt, his zip. 

"Lift up," Aiden says, and abruptly John's trousers and pants are around his knees and his bare arse is on display. His cock presses against the solid heat of Aiden's thigh, and John can't help but rub against it. 

Aiden laughs and smacks his arse. "God, that's tight. I wouldn't mind having a go at that." 

"You a queer too?" Peter says. 

"Nah, you never fucked a girl that way? It's amazing. Good and tight, not so sloppy." 

"I wouldn't mind either," Jamie mutters. 

The talk is getting Tim off, clearly, as much as John's mouth. He's thrusting up now, and John's just taking it, hands braced on the sofa and Tim's thigh, cock sliding between his lips, nice and easy and slick. Smells good, clean; Tim's just about fresh from the shower as they all are. John remembers what he looks like naked, what they all look like, who's got the biggest dick. Things he should be politely ignoring in the locker rooms, but actually makes a point of noting for the occasional wank session. 

John's nose is filled with the scent of soap and sex, and he's getting harder himself, thrusting against Aiden's thigh. The fabric of his trousers is scratchy on John's bare cock. Aiden's hands are heavy on John's arse, fingertips digging into muscle. 

"It's a fucking fine arse," Aiden says, and one fingers trails between John's cheeks. 

John moans a little, and Tim moans a lot. "Do that again," Tim says. "It makes him suck harder. Jesus." 

Aiden does it again, and again, and Tim is abruptly coming in John's mouth and down over his chin and neck. John wipes it off and grins as Tim falls back against the sofa, breathing hard. 

"Can I, Johnny?" Aiden says. He's rubbing his thumb right over John's hole, pressing, stroking. "Can I have your arse?" 

This is the point to stop it, John thinks. If he wants it to stop. And then: _Why the fuck would I want it to stop?_ This is best time he's had in ages. His heart is beating fast, and there's just a hint of danger, of possibility, the potential for things to get out of hand (they won't; these are his mates) (they _could_ ; these are horny, half-drunk blokes with hard-ons) and he loves it. 

"Has someone got lube?" he says. 

There's a cheer somewhere behind the sofa where Brand and Peter and Eliot have got up off their beanbags to watch the show. _John_ is the show. He's not sure how he feels about that, but it heats his cheeks and makes his dick fucking rock hard. 

"Bedroom," Tim says. "Big bottle. Under the bed." He still hasn't got his breath back. 

"Exactly how much wanking do you do in there, mate?" Peter says. 

"Oi, sometimes I get a dry bird. Shut it." 

There are retreating footsteps as someone goes to fetch it. Aiden takes advantage of the wait to get John's trousers all the way off. Pants too, and socks. John's shoes are already gone, as Tim made everyone take them off when they came in. His mum just had the wood floors refinished or something, and Tim lives in fear of his mum. Their shoes were all piled in a giant orgy (gangbang, John's mind substituted) by the front door. 

Christian pushes John's thighs apart, and there's someone else back there too, two sets of hands on John's skin, fingers brushing his balls, pulling his cheeks wider. 

"He's so fucking hard for this," Aiden says, laughing. "I can feel it. What a slag." 

"I want to see," Jamie says, and he sounds hungry. "Flip him over." 

"In a minute. Let me get him slicked up first." 

Someone's brought the lube, because John gets a cold, wet glob of it smack on his hole. He sucks in a breath and listens to the laughter (at him, this time; not for him) as Aiden works it in. 

Aiden has thick fingers, strong, rough. It's a good thing John gets fucked pretty regularly because Aiden's opening him up like an invasion, shoving in hard, and whatever he has to say about girls, they're not the only ones he's done this with. He finds that hot button spot inside John on the second thrust and goes after it again and again until John is _panting_. 

"I think that's enough," Aiden says, monstrously smug. He smacks John's arse. "Sit up." 

John struggles upright, nearly falling off the sofa, caught by more hands than he can count and turned, positioned. Hands on his wrists, hands on his thighs. 

"Sit on my dick, John," Aiden says. "Come on, get it up your arse, I know you want it." 

John reaches back, gets it in his hand--and gets his hand knocked away and his wrist caught tight again, held immobile. "Just sit," Aiden says in his ear, pulling him down, guiding his cock to press at John's hole and then in, and it's all too fast, stretching John wide, making him squirm and suck in air. 

He's looking down at his own arms, at the way his muscles and tendons stand out under strain, at the fingers that dig into his wrists, one set lighter (Eliot) and one darker (Christian). It feels like an immense stretch of time before he begins to relax. He does settle into it though, body stretching out, shifting side to side to take him deeper. 

"You can let go, guys," he says, but Aiden laughs in his ear. 

"Don't let go. He likes it. Can't you see his dick standing up for it? He likes being held down."

"Do you?" Eliot murmurs, close, kneeling on the floor in front of John. "'Cause I want to hold you down. I want to push your face against the floor and hold onto your neck and fuck your tight little arse. Fuck you for shaking it around the showers like you do. Wanted it for weeks and I don't care if that gets me called queer. I'm not. It's your fault." 

John can't answer, can only stare and imagine it, face down on the floor, held down, fucked while everyone watches. 

"Okay," he whispers. 

Eliot's grin is fierce. Half the others bust out laughing, Aiden included. 

"God, _such_ a slag." 

"Fucking slut." 

"Fuck yourself," Aiden says, low and hard, and he yanks John back and down. "Move." 

It's hard. They haven't let go of his wrists, so he's got no leverage. It's all in his thighs, but he can just about manage it, digging his heels in till they catch against varnished wood, shoving himself up, dropping back down. 

Aiden hisses in his ear, and Aiden's hands clamp down hard on his hips. " _Fuck_. Do it, bitch, move. Faster."

 _Bitch. Slut. Slag._ Not John. Not his name anymore. 

Someone, Jamie maybe, starts chanting. "Fas-ter, fas-ter," and the rest of them pick it up. Aiden smacks John's arse and laughs, and John is straining to move, to keep up with their chant, like mad footie fans at a match they are, and John doesn't know quite how this happened, how they got here from a couple of blowjobs. 

Aiden gasps when he comes and grinds up into him, hard. 

In the next second, before Aiden's even properly done, Eliot's dragging John off of him and down to the floor. 

"Bastard," Aiden mutters, stroking himself, cock jerking once more and throwing spots of white across his trousers. 

John's got spots of white all over his vision from the sudden change in position, from Eliot's hand on his neck, _shoving_ him down, knee on his back for a second, grinding him into the floor. It's bare wood. John's still wearing his shirt, and his upper body slides while the bare skin of his thighs sticks and drags against it. His cock is pressed between cotton and wood, and he's so close, can't help the rock of his hips. 

Peter's kneeling next to him. It's the first time John's properly seen his cock. Peter's a little shy in the showers, with a sweet smile and a large, hooked nose that dominates his face and somehow manages to make him more handsome than not. His cock is in proportion with his nose, it turns out. The thing's a fucking menace, and he's stroking it hard, fast, eyes fastened to John's mouth. 

And Eliot-- Christ, Eliot is forcing his thighs wider than is comfortable, kneeling between them. His hands are on John's hips and he is dragging John back, actually up onto Eliot's thighs a bit, and then Eliot's cock is sinking into him. Eliot groans, deep and loud.

"Tight, so tight, god," and he's slamming in with no build up, just zero to full speed ahead. 

It sends John's cheek and hands skidding over the floor, and makes Peter moan and reach for John's hair. He looks so desperate, eyes wide, lips bitten and wet. 

He touches John's mouth and says, "Can I, can I, John? Please?" 

John's never been especially good at saying no to pretty boys with pleading eyes. He nods. 

Peter shuffles forward on his knees and holds John's head with both hands as he eases his cock between John's lips. It's actually the biggest John's seen in real life, and he's seen a few. It stretches his lips and makes his jaw ache, so thick it's actually hard to suck, and he can feel drool slipping down over his chin. Peter wipes at it with a shaking thumb and smears it up John's cheek. 

"God, god, John," he says, and his voice is shaking too. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I have to." He shoves in deep, and John nearly chokes on it. "You're so good," Peter says softly. "Fuck, you're so good at this, I've never had a girl take this much," and he's fucking John's mouth, one hand on John's cheek and the other on the back of his head. 

He's not really giving John much of a choice about taking this much, but John has his pride, and so he makes himself relax his throat and take it the best he can. It's not bloody easy, and Eliot's pounding his arse _hard_ , shoving him forward onto Peter's cock. He likes it rough, he'll admit, but maybe not this rough. It's hard to get a breath, impossible to think; all he can do is hold on. 

It's almost peaceful, but for the lack of oxygen. 

It's the feel of it, the scent and glide, the _force_ that means he can't quite stay still even though he can't move. Peter's cock down his throat, Eliot's jammed up against his prostate. He's harder than he can remember being, even with the tiny bubble of panic growing in his stomach. 

Eliot finishes first with a long groan and a series of sharp thrusts that send Peter's dick so far down John's throat that he's gagging on it, making wet sounds he can't control, and then Peter's shooting too. John barely gets a chance to swallow before Peter pulls out, still jacking himself, and spurts again across John's cheek. He's swearing in a low, rapt voice the whole time, like it's the hottest thing he's ever done. 

He edges back, and Eliot pulls out. John lies flat on the floor, without the energy to move even a fingertip. His skin is hot all over and too small, and his heart is pounding so hard it shakes his entire body. 

The front door opens. There is a gust of cold air, and John shuts his eyes and prays it's just Ian coming back with the beer and not Tim's sister coming home early from Cardiff. That would be _really_ awkward. 

It is Ian. John can tell from from the low whistle he lets out when he's close enough to see, even before he says, "What's this then?" 

"Johnny wanted some cock," Aiden says, smirk in his voice. "We were just helping him out." 

"Yeah?" 

There is a clink of cans being set down, and Tim mutters something about not leaving rings on the coffee table. Footsteps. Ian moving closer. The sounds of a zip being pulled down, flesh on flesh. John doesn't have to look up to know it's Ian stroking himself. _God._. This is. What is this? He can't even believe it. Ian walked in the door five seconds ago and in about ten seconds he's going be balls deep in John's arse. 

John is breathing too quickly, shifting restlessly against the floor. His cock is sliding more easily against it, slicked by a fucking lake of pre-come. _Sorry about the wood, Mrs Verger._ He laughs at that, and it comes out sounding more like a sob. Ian's the last one. After this he'll tell them to stop. They'll listen. They have to. 

"Up," Ian says, and pulls at his hips. John scrambles to get a knee under himself, and Ian shoves a cushion between him and floor. It's nice. Soft. Also raises his hips up, and John is uncomfortably aware that his arse is facing the audience on and around the sofa, that he's spread wide, that as Ian kneels next to him and works in more lube with two long fingers, they can see _everything_. 

John buries his face in his arms. The inside of his head is too loud to hear what they're saying, and he's glad. It's half the thunder of his pulse, half unformed thought fragments: _over soon, just one more, over, fuck he's going to fuck me, they can all see, they're all going to watch, hot, hot, has to be something wrong with me, jesus fuck hot._

Ian's big, plays loose forward, so he's generally fast too. Not right now. He pushes in slow, and his large, warm hands tip John's hips just so, and John's so strung out he gasps at the feel of it. 

There's a bit of pain now. John's only gotten fucked twice in one night before this, and hours apart, not minutes. When Ian kneels back and pulls John against his chest, sinking in that much deeper, John nearly whimpers at the feel of it. Friction, heat, the tight stretch, and when Ian thrusts forward with a sharp tilt of his hips it actually lifts John up, spears him hard on that cock and drags a moan out of him. 

"You like that?" Ian says. 

"No. Yeah. _Fuck_. Wanna come." 

He reaches, finally, for his cock, but Ian's there first, stroking him off with a hand somehow slick, fast, and so good. John lasts bare seconds before he's coming hard, nearly blind with it and crying out. Ian loops an arm round his chest to hold him when he's done. John's gone boneless, unable even to hold his head up, and Ian's still going. 

His dick's still rubbing hard against John's prostate, and it makes John's cock twitch, pulls whimpers from his throat that he can't keep back now. He feels broken, and he shudders all over when he feels Ian come. 

There's a moment of quiet and of Ian holding him upright. Slowly, John flexes his hands, remembers how to make his body work again. 

"Okay, mate?" Ian says. 

John nods, and Ian pulls out of him, leaves him tipped on his side on the floor, feeling come drip down over his balls. Jamie's stalking toward him with purpose, and John manages to hold a hand up. 

"Enough," he says. "No more, game's over." 

"Are you mad?" Jamie says. "You think you can just wind us all up like that and then bugger off for a beer?" 

And like that, just like _that_ , like he has some sort of _right_ , he's on John, shoving him roughly onto his stomach. He grips John's neck when John tries to buck him off. John has no strength left in him anyway, and Jamie's fingers dig in sharply, start to cut off his air. 

"Just fucking take it," Jamie snarls. "Just lie there and take it, you deserve it, you fucking deserve it." 

The thrusts are hard, so hard. John can't get a decent breath, can't move, _can't believe this is really happening._ Jamie's a good bloke, he'd always thought. Talked a bit rough sometimes about the girls he slept with, but John never thought he had something like this in him. 

"Get off," John says. "Stop it, stop playing around." Even though he's fairly sure Jamie is not playing. 

"I'm not _playing_ , you little cunt."

It hurts now. Not a lot, but the lube's getting thin, and Jamie isn't slowing down. If anything, the thrusts come faster, more desperate, wild and uncontrolled until Jamie's just humping into him like a dog. 

John could swear he feels the bastard's drool on the back of his neck, though maybe it's sweat. The floor under John is slick with come, oddly warm from his body. He stares at the potted plant in the corner, one of those with the braided trunks and shiny leaves. He closes his eyes as Jamie comes. 

The next thing he's properly aware of is someone tapping the bottle of scotch against his cheek. He looks up. It's Aiden. He ought to leave, he thinks. Booze will not help; he's learned that lesson quite well from Harry. But he so desperately wants this to be okay again, to be the way it was, and he takes the bottle and drinks. And drinks. 

Someone hauls him up by the arm, and he mumbles a thank you. They're heading, hopefully, for the kitchen. He could really use some water. It's Will, with Aiden on the other side, and they're walking him, yes, toward the kitchen, where he is going to stick his entire head under the tap. Cold water. It'll be brilliant. And then he can come back out and finish the film and tomorrow he'll find Jamie and beat the living shit out of him and it'll all be all right. 

But they're not going to the kitchen. They stop at the table just outside, round worn wood, and Will says, "Here?"

"Here's good." 

They push him down over the table. Aiden goes round to the far side and grabs John's wrists, stretching him across till his hips are digging into the rounded edge. The bottle lube hits the table beside his head and makes him jump. Hands on his arse, squeezing hard. 

"We should fucking charge for this," Will says. 

And John thinks, quite clearly: _It is not going to be all right._

"I bet you could get him hard again," Aiden says. 

"Eh, fuck that. I just want to get off."

"Maybe after then," Aiden says, looking right at John. 

John shakes his head, mouths _stop this_ , feeling like an idiot because it's perfectly clear now that no one is going to stop, least of all Aiden. He tries to pull out of Aiden's grip, but he feels weak and dizzy, and he's pretty spectacularly drunk now, shouldn't have touched that scotch, should've known better. Too late now. 

More lube is spread over his hole, followed quickly by the press of Will's dick. Will takes it easy, groans as he slides in. He runs his hands up John's back and then down, spreading John's cheeks. Watching his cock slide out and back in. 

With the extra lube, it doesn't exactly hurt, but it's not comfortable. He feels very full, sore, _used_ , and the friction of the long drag in and out makes him squirm helplessly. He wants to stop, not to give them any reaction, but the sensation is just too much and he can't help it. 

"He likes it," Aiden says, voice soft and mocking. "Go on, do it harder." 

"I'm good like this," Will says, and he keeps his pace. Slow, steady, deep. 

It gives John a chance to think, and what he thinks is that when Will's finished he's going to get the fuck out of here. Aiden will be distracted, _watching_ , the bastard, and John just needs to find the strength to twist his wrists away, find his trousers, and get out. They must be by the sofa, on the floor somewhere. He twists his head around and spots them lying crumpled by the plant. Right. Good. He's got a plan. 

Will bends over him, spread out over his back, screwing in deep. Rocking, shifting his rhythm. Doing whatever feels good to him, because it doesn't matter what feels good to John. 

John presses his forehead to the table and breathes through his nose and waits. 

Will speeds up, starts grunting. John normally enjoys the noises people make during sex, even the truly ridiculous ones. This is...disgusting. But it also seems to mean Will is getting closer. John braces himself. 

Will comes with a stream of obscenities, mostly directed at god rather than John. Nice change. 

The second he pulls out, John twists both his wrists toward Aiden's thumbs. It breaks the grip immediately and John gets himself upright, moving in the direction of his trousers, wondering if he should just leave them--

And a fist slams into his jaw. 

There is a brief space of blurred colors and blood inside his mouth. He's cut himself on his own teeth. He's never really been in a fight (if you don't count rugby), just playground scuffles. No one's ever hit him with this kind of _malice_ before.

When he can get his eyes to focus again, he no longer needs them to know where he is. He can feel the table under him. Aiden's holding him tighter, and there's someone else behind him. The voice--

"Uh, god, fuck, you little whore, take it--"

\--is Brand's.

"I bet he's hard again," Aiden says, greedy, watching John's face. "Is he?"

Brand gropes John's balls and cock. "Nah, but I bet I can fix that." 

He straightens up and pulls John back against his chest. John goes with him, limp as a ragdoll, dizzy, sick. Brand takes his cock and starts stroking, long, slow, slick pulls that make John's body tingle and react against his will. It's less than a minute before he starts to get hard. 

"Fuck, yes," Aiden breathes. "Don't stop, keep going, make him come." 

"No trouble. Bitch loves it. You should feel how he squeezes down every time I touch his little prick. Makes it even better for me." 

It's true. John wishes he could stop, but it feels like his body's a separate thing from him now. Like he's watching this happen to someone else, from behind their eyes. He's up on his tiptoes, impaled on Brand's cock. It's hard and thick inside him, just grinding against his prostate so that any movement at all makes him see sparks, and he can't keep still. He's squirming, helpless and horrified and turned on, unable to get away as Brand's hand and cock push him toward the edge. 

Brand runs a thumb up the underside and over the head, teasing little circles, spreading around a mixture of lube and pre-come. John's leaking, hips hitching forward in useless little thrusts. He closes his eyes and turns his head away, but he can't help the noises this is drawing from him. 

"Come on, baby," Brand croons in his ear. "You want it really. Say you want it. Just say yes, and I'll get you off. Come on. Everyone already knows it, you're whining like a bitch in heat, c'mon, baby, say it, just say it--" And on, and on. 

Brand teases him, gives him hard strokes that set him panting, bring him close, so close, and then nothing. John thrusts into air because he can't stop himself, and Brand laughs. 

"Greedy little whore," he says.

And then he starts all over again. 

More teasing. Stroking him hard and slowing down when John's trembling and right on the edge. Laughing again as he whimpers. Bending him over the table to fuck him hard until he's gasping with it. John has no idea how long it lasts, but finally he's there, he's _right there_ , and he just wants it to be over. 

"Yes," he croaks, and Brand groans. The hand on his cock speeds to a blur, and John's back arches painfully as he starts to come. It's a rush of white and noise that seems to last forever. 

By the time John is blinking his eyes open, there is a body slumped and still over his, pressing him down against the table. Aiden is fucking his own fist and panting. John doesn't even think. 

He forces himself to his feet, knocking Brand off to one side. Brand slurs a threat and staggers toward him, aims a punch that manages to hit only his shoulder. John comes up with his hands locked together into one fist and swings it like a bat at Brand's face. Brand goes down. 

John limps across a silent room. He picks up his trousers and steps out into the hall, down the stairs, into the thankfully empty lobby before he can make himself stop and put them on. No one follows him. 

It's raining. He stops just outside, under the cover of a cement overhang, to suck in lungfuls of clean, cold air. He hadn't been aware how hot he was, and now the sweat cooling on his skin is making him feel cold right down to his bones. Behind him, the door opens. He whips around, back braced against a support pillar. It's Ewan, beer bottle in one hand, cautious smile on his face, like John is some sort of explosive device.

"Hey, mate," Ewan slurs. "All right? You left pretty fast." 

John stares. Honestly cannot think of a word to say. 

Ewan blinks at him slowly and takes a drink. "I know they were a bit rough, but come on, you were totally asking for it."

John has no clue how he crossed the space separating them. His fist is simply, suddenly impacting against Ewan's nose with a horrible crunch of cartilage and blood. It hurts a lot more than John would've expected, although clearly not as much as it hurts Ewan. 

The bottle shatters on the ground, and Ewan bends over to clutch his nose. 

"You-- A bit _rough_ ," John yells, and his voice cracks like it hasn't since he was sixteen. "A bit _rough?_ You fucking--" _Cocksucker_ : it's on the tip of his tongue, so to speak. He hears it as an insult all the time. Not one he uses himself, but here it is, in his moment of need. 

He hates the entire world and every single person in it with a cold, sharp clarity that stops him short and keeps him from kicking in Ewan's ribs. He stands straight and takes two deliberate steps back. 

"Come on, boys," says a new voice, weary, behind him. "Break it up."

John turns more slowly this time, unwilling to let Ewan out of his sight. This man is older, late twenties or early thirties, wearing a suit, bad case of five o'clock shadow.

The man stops short at the sight of John's face, and Ewan bolts off into the night. 

"Are you okay?" the man says. 

His voice is too gentle for the situation he clearly thinks he's just walked into, and John can't figure out why. He's probably still got blood on his face, but Ewan had more. John wipes at his cheek where it itches and his hands comes back with dried white flecks instead of red. Oh, god. 

"Detective Sergeant Lestrade," the man says. "You're safe now. There's a payphone right there. I'm going to ring for an ambulance, all right?" 

It's clearly a rhetorical question, but John's answer is 100% _no_. He drags himself into a run, the opposite direction from Ewan, but he's drunk and in pain and sick with adrenaline, and it's not long before the sergeant catches him up. 

"Hey, hey, easy. Look, I can drive you to hospital if you'd rather. My car's close." 

John shakes his head and walks on, no idea where he's going. He keeps flinching away from a touch that never comes. The sergeant has his hands in his pockets, John realizes, at last. Has made no move to touch him. He's probably had some sort of special _training_ for dealing with people like John. Victims. 

At that point, John has to stop and vomit into the gutter. 

"I can call someone for you," the sergeant offers. "Friend? Family member? What's your name?"

"John."

"John what?"

"John none of your business." He takes a deep breath and straightens up. The rain is a fine, cold mist. It's starting to make him shiver, but it also clears his head. He just needs a shower and some sleep, and he'll be fine. 

"Greg," the sergeant says. 

John frowns. "What?"

"My name."

"I don't care what your name is. Leave me the hell alone." 

"John, you really need to go to hospital and get checked out." 

"I'm fine!" John snarls, rounding on him. "I won't sit easy for a few days, but they used plenty of slick, so I'm actually only bleeding from my _mouth_ , thanks, and I'm _actually_ fucking fine and if you could _fuck the hell off_ that would absolutely make my day." 

"They?" Greg says, softly. 

Shit. _Shit._ He shuts his mouth with a snap and starts walking again. He's got to get home, shower, sleep--

Only he can't. He's sharing a flat with Harry, and he can't see Harry like this. Especially not after midnight on a Saturday. Harry will be drunk, will not leave him alone, will somehow get this out of him, and he can't even think about her knowing without wanting to vomit again. 

A hotel, then. Mum gave him a credit card for emergencies, and he'll explain the charge somehow and pay her back. All right. All right. He realizes he's breathing so fast he's dizzy all over again and makes himself slow down. 

Greg is still walking with him. 

"Leave me alone," John mutters. 

"Can't do that." 

"Haven't you got anything better to do?"

"Than make sure you don't pass out and die of hypothermia? Oddly enough, I don't, no." 

"I'm going to a hotel. I'm not stupid."

Greg's quiet for a few paces, and then he says, carefully, "It'd really be better if you went to hospital before you shower, John." 

"Stop fucking calling me that!"

"It's your name, isn't it?" 

"Stop calling me that like you know me or something, like you know anything about me! I bet they taught you that in some sensitivity training course, didn't they? Use their name so they'll feel more comfortable, so they'll _trust_ you, something like that." 

Greg flushes slightly under the orange light of the streetlamps. "I'm trying to help," he says. 

"You're trying to help your case. And there isn't going to be one, all right? No case."

"I've got to file a report."

"Do what you want."

"We'll have to investigate--"

"I'll say it was consensual!"

There is a brief pause. Greg opens his mouth and closes it again without saying anything.

"I will," John says. "I'll say it was all my idea. And it'll be your word against mine and _theirs_ and you know they won't admit anything and you won't have any evidence and--and it was my fault anyway." 

John stops when he hears himself say that. He doesn't believe that. Does he? 

"It wasn't your fault," Greg says, and he sounds angry now. 

"How do _you_ know? Maybe I led them on." He had. He'd started it really. If he'd said no to Christian it would've stopped right there. 

"Oh, fuck me sideways, I don't care if you walked in there naked and said, 'All right boys, open season on my arse!' It was not your bloody fault!" Greg stops short and rubs a hand over his mouth.

John blinks. "I bet that wasn't in the training course."

"...Not as such. No. Sorry." 

"Look. I _am_ going to a hotel. You can't actually stop me." 

"You can go to A and E without telling them what happened. They'll treat you anyway."

"I just need a shower and some sleep. I can't go to hospital, I've got class in the morning."

"Tomorrow's Sunday." 

"Then I've got to study." 

He trudges on. Greg shadows him, silent now. It's cold. John can see a crescent moon through whisper-thin clouds in the distance, blurred by the curtain of grey rain. 

"What hotel are you going to?" Greg says. 

"First one I find." 

The first one they come to has a red awning and a uniformed doorman who looks at John like he is a thing and not a person. John physically backs away from that look. He's had more than enough of it tonight. 

"Isn't there anyone I can call for you?" Greg says. He looks almost desperate now. "You must live with someone if you won't go home. They might be a lot more understanding than you think. And worried. Anyone at all?" 

John thinks about it. His family is out. Yesterday, passing his organic chemistry exam topped his list of priorities. Making sure none of them ever finds out is now miles above that. John doesn't have a lot of friends. He has a lot of people he drinks with, or plays rugby with, or studies with, or fucks. He gets on with nearly everyone. There is not one person he could call, even if he wanted to. 

"No." He looks up at Greg, feeling blank. "There's no one." 

Greg studies his face for a long moment, and then sighs. "My flat's just round the corner. You can use my shower and sleep on the sofa. I'm not just going off and leaving you on your own." 

John searches for something that will tell him if Greg's lying. He always thought he was pretty good at knowing who to trust, but he's evidently been dead wrong all along. In the end, he nods. It's the combined thought of having to get past that doorman and of his mum's face when she sees the credit card bill that does it. 

They turn around and walk back the way they came. Greg still has his hands in his pockets, and he walks stooped over now, occasionally glaring at the pavement like it's responsible for the mess he's in. John supposes that the mess, at this point, must be considerable. 

"Are you going to get in trouble for this?" he says. 

"If anyone finds out, yeah. Lots." 

"I won't tell anyone." 

Greg jerks his head up. "You tell anyone you like, all right? Don't worry about that. That is not on your list of things to worry about." 

"I won't tell anyone anyway." 

Greg throws him a worried look, but says nothing. 

His place is actually just around the next corner, a fourth floor flat at the top of creaking wooden stairs. It takes John a long time to climb them. Greg neither hurries him along nor offers to help, just walks a step ahead and waits. 

Most of the flat is visible from the front door: sofa, telly, small table by the window, tiny kitchen with a mini-fridge and no oven. 

"I'll get you a towel," Greg says and disappears momentarily into the bedroom. He comes back with towel, t-shirt, and track suit bottoms. 

"Thanks."

John locks the door behind him and starts the shower. He's been half expecting some sort of breakdown to set in once he's alone, but there's...nothing. He takes off his clothes and looks at the stains on the inside of his pants and trousers; semen and no blood, as expected. Surely he ought to feel something about that. It's like someone pulled a plug somewhere and all his emotions drained out.

He adjusts the water temperature and gets in. Has to get out to check he's locked the door. It's secure, the little fake-brass button depressed. He's dripping water all over the floor. Stupid. He gets back in and washes his hair. Greg uses a dandruff control one. It's a vivid green and smells medicinal. 

_Did_ he lock the door? Of course. He can remember how the button felt under his wet thumb. It itches at him all the same until he finally decides that it won't hurt to check. He gets out with a head full of suds, bubbles dripping down his naked back as he slides his thumb over the lock one more time. It's fine. 

He rinses his hair and picks up the soap. It's completely generic, just a worn, off-white bar. It sits in his hand, slick and faintly warm. He's got to get clean, and that's going to involve touching himself. It's unexpectedly problematic. 

He keeps staring at the soap. Soap. Hand. Apply to body. Easy. He can make out faint letters imprinted on the soap, but they're too worn down to be readable. He rubs his thumb over them. The letter O is like the lock on the door, but backwards. Soft and slick, not hard, inset instead of sticking out. He rubs at it and then scratches at it with his thumbnail until it's no longer visible. 

The door _is_ locked. He knows that. 

This is getting stupid. He needs to wash and get out and get some sleep. He's not checking the damn door again. It's a bit easier if he only lets the soap touch him and not his hands. He does his chest, arms, legs, but when he goes to do--the rest--his movements are too jerky, and he drops the soap. 

It's the punchline of every prison joke ever, and he laughs in silent gusts of air until it's hard to take a full breath, until he has to crouch down and bend over his knees. From that position he can reach the soap. With suds on his hands, he washes between his cheeks and scrapes with his nails at dried on semen. 

It gets under his nails, and he tries to get it out, but picking at it does little good, and the harder he does it, the deeper it gets. He uses his right thumbnail, a bit longer than the rest, and gouges up under each nail in turn, scraping hard, slicing back and forth. The stuff has gone gummy with the hot water. He needs a nail brush, and there isn't one. He needs to make sure the door is locked. He can just check it one more time. He's had a hard night, and this will help, and he doesn't need to tell anyone about it ever. 

He gets out again, covered in soap and slipping on the tile. He touches the brass button with his thumb and feels his tension ease. Right. Okay. Back in the shower. Except he's still standing here.

He's getting cold. Shivering, actually. There's suds on the tiles around his feet where it's slid off his body. A small pool of water, too. 

"John?" Greg knocks on the door. "All right? Only there's water coming under the door."

"Fine," he croaks, thumb rubbing over the brass button. Locked. Going to stay locked. It's okay. He's fine. 

"John." Greg's voice is more gentle this time. "Get back in the shower. You've got to be cold. Finish up. I'm going to make some tea." 

"Right. Yeah." 

Greg's footsteps retreat. John gets back in the shower and rinses off. When he looks at his nails again, they seem quite clean after all. 

When he dries off, he finds blood on the towel. There's a moment where he can't breathe, and apparently it lasts a while because his vision is going a bit spotty when he finally gasps in air. There is not much, and it's fresh. He touches himself gingerly and sags against the wall with relief. He's scratched himself trying to get the stuff off, that's all. No hospital. He's fine. 

The scratches aren't deep, and there's only two that are bleeding at all. He blots them until they stop and finds a couple of plasters to stick over them. The towel he wads up so the blood is on the inside. Maybe he can wash it out before Greg sees it. 

T-shirt on, and track suit bottoms. Hair damp and sticking up like hedgehog spikes, but nothing to be done about it. He steals some toothpaste and brushes with his forefinger. 

After he spits, he looks at himself in the mirror. He's pale and slightly bruised, but overall presentable. That's fine. Good, actually. He can say he's been in a fight. He'll be moving stiffly for a few days, and that will explain it. 

His clothes are still on the floor where he dropped them. He wants to fold them into the towel and shove them away somewhere, but that would involve touching them. In the end, he wrenches the door open and lets them be swept away behind it. 

Greg waves him over to the sofa and gives him a steaming mug. A plate of buttered toast sits between them on the center cushion, cut into strips. John can't help but smile, though it feels odd on his face. 

"Nice. I bet you'll be a good mum some day." 

Greg's mouth twitches up at one corner. "Piss off, I happen to like it like that. Who says it's for you, anyway?" 

He flips channels, from talk show to drama to nature documentary, and settles there. They watch something about spiders that dig holes with trapdoors and build webs underground. 

John finds he can get the toast down, just about, if he has enough tea with it. He starts dunking the strips in his mug, and it's something about the length of the strips, putting them in his mouth, and the dryness of them without the tea to ease their way down his throat. The tea is clearly lube for toast. 

His first reaction is a barked sort of laugh that makes Greg turn toward him in inquiry, but then John's remembering the bottle of lube planted on the kitchen table three inches from his face. The label was turned away. He couldn't see the brand name, but it was done in garish purple and gold, and he remembers the sound it made squirting into Brand's hand before he--

John stares at the spiders on the telly. Apparently they stick bits of grit and sand to a circle of webbing, and then they've got a little door they can hide behind when something bigger than them comes along. Their tunnels are all lined with webbing, too. It looks soft. 

He can feel Greg still looking at him, but he can't think of anything to say. 

"All done?" Greg asks, after a minute or two. 

"Yeah." 

"Bedroom's through there. I changed the sheets."

"You said I'd sleep on the sofa. I don't want to-- It's your bed." 

Greg gathers up their mugs and the plate and heads for the kitchen. "The bedroom door locks," he says. 

"I don't need you or your toast strips or your fucking door locks! I'm fine!" As soon as it's out, he wishes he hadn't said it. In the very back of his mind, he's been thinking about sleeping in the bathroom, exactly because of its fucking door lock. He could use the towel as a pillow. It would work. Awkward if Greg had to piss in the night though. 

"Mmhmm," Greg says, and keeps on washing the mugs out with lemon Fairy Liquid. 

John can smell it from the sofa. It's the same kind his mum uses, and he sort of wants to go and stick his face right in the suds. 

"Right," he mutters. "I'll just go then." 

"Night, John." 

He stomps off to the bedroom, aware he should apologize and completely incapable of forcing the words out. 

The bedroom is about twice the size of a small walk-in closet. The single bed takes up most of it. Greg's sheets are blue and white striped cotton, and John gets between them without taking any of his clothes off. He can see the door from the bed, see the lock is depressed without needing to get up and touch it. He leaves the light on and watches it until his eyes close all on their own. 

*

When John wakes up, he's surprised how good he feels. Oh, not physically. In addition to--the rest of it--he did play a fairly vigorous rugby match yesterday and drank considerably more than was good for him. There are very few parts of him that don't hurt in some way. 

No nightmares though. No sudden urge to hide under the covers all day or slit his wrists or even have a cry. He feels sensible and clear-headed and a bit ashamed about worrying Greg so much he took him home like a stray cat. 

It just wasn't that bad, really. The first part was just sex, and after that there was only Jamie and Will and Brand-- _the lube bottle, the sound, Aiden's hands on his wrists_ \--

They weren't even that rough. He finds he's touching his wrists and forces himself to stop. That's it. He's fine. Time to get back to normal. He has exams to study for.

He finds his trainers outside the bedroom door with clean socks stuffed inside them, and his wallet and keys on top of them. There's a glass of water and two aspirin on the kitchen counter with a note that says: _Drink me_. John flips it over and scribbles on the back: _thanks, mum_. 

But it makes him smile, and he does drink it--quietly, so as not to wake the pile of blankets on the sofa. 

He steals a banana as well to eat on the way home. Best to be gone before Greg gets up. Less awkward for everyone.

He gets as far as the front door. 

It's painted a faded teal. Cracks show a sort of creamy beige behind that, like tea with a lot of milk in. If you look at the cracks from the right angle, you can see a slightly deformed rabbit sitting on a crescent moon. 

John has a lot of time to study it. He's three feet away, and he can't get a step closer, can't even make himself touch the doorknob. He has his banana in a stranglehold. 

So to speak. Bananas and toast strips. Why does so much food have to be phallic? 

It's not Harry that's stopping him. Harry will be miserably hungover and will sulk in her room for most of the day, and anyway John feels far more capable of lying convincingly to her now than he did last night. 

_They're all out there_. There were twelve people in that room, besides him, which makes him unlucky thirteen. Besides them, there's Tommy and Jack and Sean and Ethan on the team too. Will they tell the ones who weren't there what happened? Will they brag about it? They all live nearby. They all go to the same university. It's not completely unlikely that he'll see one of them on his way home. 

_So what?_ He feels like slapping himself in the face. He deserves it for being so stupid. What's going to happen on a public street? Exactly nothing, that's what. _So stop being a baby and get out there._

He can hear a clock ticking somewhere. When he was little and bothering Harry over when they were going to leave for Grandad's house, she told him to count to sixty, one hundred and twenty times, and then it would be time to go. He'd done it, too, although he'd finished in a lot less than two hours. 

It got him stuck on counting time when waiting was hard, or when things were bad. Forty three counts of sixty from the time Mum got the phone call about Dad's accident to the time they got to hospital. Twenty two more while they waited for her, because he and Harry weren't allowed in intensive care. Only three for the costume change in his school play where he had to die as Mercutio and be back on as-- He can't even remember now. Mercutio was the good role. 

So he's pretty sure it's at least half an hour before Greg emerges from the blanket cocoon and yawns. His counting's got a lot more accurate over the years. 

"I'm just going," John says quickly. "I'm sorry. I should've gone home last night. It was silly not to." 

Greg squints at him, bags under his eyes and hair all flat on one side. "Eggs and toast?" 

"I'm going, I said." 

"Scrambled or poached?"

John looks at the door one more time, and then back to Greg. 

"Poached," he says, and follows Greg to the kitchen to return his banana, now somewhat worse for wear. 

Greg makes poached eggs one at a time by swirling the hot water with a spoon handle until it makes a little vortex to hold the whites against the yolk. 

"That's...obsessive," John says. 

"You can do them in plastic bags too, but they come out bag shaped." 

"Bag shaped?"

"With the wrinkles in and all. They look like plastic." 

John stands at the counter to eat his perfectly poached, non-plastic-looking eggs on toast while Greg does two more for himself. 

"I've got to go after this. Sorry about...everything." 

"I'll give you a lift." 

"I can walk."

"I'll give you a lift anyway." 

"No!" 

Greg frowns slightly and dumps eggs onto his toast. Says nothing. 

"I'll be fine," John says. "I don't need--anything." He doesn't need Greg knowing where he lives, that's for certain. Right now he's safe enough. No last name, just some random student, appearance unremarkable at best. But with an address, Greg could change his mind about reporting this. He could tell Harry, or John's parents, and maybe he'd think he was doing it for John's own good, but _he would be wrong._ No one's going to know, ever. So he'll walk. 

"I could've just looked in your wallet," Greg says, once he's taken a bite of toast. "If I'd wanted to find out your address." 

That's not actually true. John's driving license still lists his parents' address in Aberdeen. Greg doesn't know that though. Because he didn't snoop. Of course, if John hadn't been so stupid as to leave his wallet in his trousers, he wouldn't have had the opportunity. 

John thinks about the front door again, with its moon rabbit, and his half hour of carefully counted sixties spent staring at it. He's got to get out of the flat somehow.

"You could give me a lift to the university library, if you wanted to."

*

When Greg drops him off, he gives John his card, and some therapist's card, as if John's going to need that. He also gives John his jacket. John would really like to refuse, but it's a long walk home from the library, he's wearing a t-shirt, and it's supposed to snow. 

He tries to refuse anyway, but he knows it sounds half-hearted, sounds like _I don't really mean no, I want you to convince me._ He wonders if that's how he sounded last night. The thought makes him freeze up all over and go still. He's left staring at his reflection in the side mirror, at his nose and the bruise on his jaw, because he'd rather not meet his own eyes. 

"You're already wearing my clothes," Greg points out, after a moment of silence. 

"I'll get them back to you," John says, automatically, still staring. 

"Uh huh. Call me, okay? Any time you like. Don't worry about waking me up, I don't keep regular hours."

John nods, gives himself a shake, and gets out of the car, glad to get away. He won't need to call, and he can post everything back, or leave it on Greg's doorstep or something. This is all officially over. 

*

He doesn't have a nightmare until the third night, and even then, it's not about _that_. It's about Dad's accident. John wasn't there for it. He was at home, already in bed with the lights out, but in his dream he's in the car. 

It's the car Dad had before the Volvo, a small, blue Renault with a stain on the dash. John is the age he is now, and he's driving. Dad's in the passenger seat, younger, without the scar on his face. 

They're roaring down the motorway, and John knows he's going much too fast. He always drives too fast, always has that part of him that says _take a risk, nothing will happen. It'll be fine._ If he'd been going slower, he might've been able to avoid the lorry that swerves into their lane, but it catches the front fender, and their tiny car is spinning, spinning until it hits the guard rail, and suddenly John has half the engine in his lap. 

His hands are tangled up in it and burning, and it's pulling at him, yanking him toward a blast of heat as the steering wheel digs into his hips and stomach and someone breathes hot on the back of his neck--

He wakes with a start, so desperate to switch on the lamp that he knocks it over. It falls and shatters, and it's the only light in his room, and it's so dark. Anything might be in here with him. He yanks the door open and bolts for the bathroom, locks himself in and turns all the lights on, even the flickery fluorescent one on the ceiling that they never use. 

It was Brand breathing on the back on his neck in the car. He knows it. He's known Brand for two years. They used to study together, before John started taking things like organic chemistry. 

John's sitting on the edge of the tub, hands sunk in his hair and pulling on it hard as he rocks forward and back. It takes him two long counts of sixty to stop it. 

He didn't count, that night. He has no idea how long it all took. It could've been minutes, or hours, or _anything_ , he has no way to know, he'll never be sure-- 

"John?" Harry. Knocking on the door. "All right?"

"I broke the lamp. I'll clean it up in the morning." 

"God, be more careful. I paid twenty pounds for that." 

He can hear her shuffling back down the hall and the click of her door as it closes. 

Greg's card is taped to the underside of John's desk. It's tempting. But what would he say? _Sorry to wake you, you've probably got work tomorrow, but I had this nightmare._ No. His own mum would think that was a bit much. He's an adult, for god's sake. 

He gets up instead, gets his textbooks, and sits on the sofa with a blanket and a mug of instant soup. His organic chemistry exam is tomorrow (today), and a little extra studying won't hurt. He's certainly not going back to sleep. 

*

John sits his exam fueled by three shots of espresso over ice. While he's waiting for it to start, he watches his hands shake. It's quite interesting. 

The exam is not easy, but John's well prepared. He expects no major problems. There are none, until his mind drifts for a moment and he thinks about the chemical formula for lube. Silicon based. It's not the first time he's thought about it, but it is the first time it's made his heart beat so fast. Part of that-- _most_ of that must be the espresso. 

He's staring at the tip of his pencil, where the wood joins the graphite, and he sees that plant in the corner with the braided stem, the one he noticed while Jamie was--on top of him. The way his body slid on the newly refinished floors. The smell, the heat, the background noise of comments that were not entirely about him. Some people were more interested in Bruce Willis. 

"Pencils down, please. Time's up." 

The room is half empty already. Most people have finished and gone. John still has a quarter of the exam unfinished. Panic settles into his chest and stomach. He can't screw up now. He's worked so hard for this, and one night, one _hour_ , cannot be allowed to fuck over his entire future. 

"John? Are you all right?" asks the girl who was sitting next to him. Julia, he thinks. 

He's still sitting there, he realizes. Staring at his hands, pencil tapping at the inside of one wrist. He forces a smile. "Sorry. Yeah. It was harder than I thought it would be, that's all." 

*

That night, still without a lamp, he goes to bed with a torch and a plastic Virgin Mary night light that Harry's new girlfriend Clara got her as some sort of in-joke. It glows faintly pink when John plugs it in. He feels like an enormous coward, but the thought of waking up in the dark again is too much for him. 

In his dreams, John wraps his father's car around an oak tree with a braided trunk. He can't move afterward. There's something wrong with his spine. His father watches from the passenger's seat while someone John can't see pulls his trousers down and--

He knocks the torch on the floor, too, but at least it doesn't break. He scrabbles after it, gets it on, and retreats away from the bed. His desk chair is near the window, and he sits in the pocket of cold air that seeps through glass and curtains. 

More exams tomorrow. He needs sleep. 

He has coffee instead, raiding Harry's supply of instant espresso and drinking it with milk and honey, cup after cup, until there is no chance of drifting off. 

*

By the end of the week, he's certainly not the only one looking haggard from all-nighters and living on coffee. It makes him feel almost normal. 

On Sunday, Ian rings to ask why John didn't show up to the rugby match. 

The message is on Harry's answerphone, and when John has listened to it, all thirty seven accusatory seconds of it ("We really could've used you, you could've at least said you wouldn't make it."), he takes the tape out and whips it against the wall. The impact cracks the plastic casing, but only a bit. He picks it up and holds it in his palm a moment, and then he starts pulling out the magnetic tape. 

There's a lot, for such a small thing, and it ends up tangled around John's fingers, hands, wrists, until he feels it's actively wrapping around him, grabbing at him. His heart is beating so fast he can't count it, and then, quite suddenly, it isn't. There's a long gap between heart beats, a darkening at the edges of his vision.

He wakes up on the floor, still alone, still tangled in tape. 

He scrapes it off his hands and into the bin, covers it up with used coffee filters. 

In the bathroom, he washes his face and hands and drinks a glass of water. Too much caffeine, too little sleep, and, when he thinks about it, almost no food. That's all it was. He'll have to stop being so stupid and look after himself better. If that happened in public, people would ask questions. 

He feels better now, actually. Or, he feels nothing at all, which he's perfectly willing to define as better. He goes to the closet in his room and gets Greg's jacket, because if he's going to be a spineless waste of skin who _faints_ over an answerphone message, he might as well go all the way. With it pulled over him, he lies down on top of the covers and closes his eyes. 

The dream this time includes all the now-familiar elements: the blue Renault, the crash, the fire, his own paralysis, but his father is not in the passenger seat this time. His father's the one behind him, working at his trousers, and John wakes up frozen, wishing he could scream. 

It's not _fair_. John stares at the wall and clutches Greg's jacket until his fingers go white and the leather dents and stretches under the pressure. His parents never even spanked him, barely raised their voices, they're _good people_ , unlike him apparently, because what kind of mind must he have to come up with that? There's something wrong with him. 

At the very least, he needs sleeping pills. Possibly he also needs his head examined. 

*

The therapist Greg recommended has an office on the fourth floor of St Bart's, where Clara works. John couldn't make himself call for an appointment, so he's here to make one in person. Pretty pathetic, but that seems to be his life now. 

The office is busier than he expected, and he has to wait to talk to the receptionist. He gathers that there's been flu going around, and that the therapist herself is in today for the first time in a week, which explains the harried expression on the receptionist's face as she tries to reschedule everyone at once. John almost leaves, but he'd just have to come back. Might as well get it over with. 

But when he tries to get an appointment, the receptionist sighs and says, "You're the third one today they've sent to the wrong office. She isn't taking new patients right now." 

John tries to explain about Greg, manages something about a referral, and the receptionist cuts him off to say, almost kindly, "She specializes in sexual assault cases, son. I really think you have the wrong office." 

Right. Because that just doesn't happen to men. John can't get out of there fast enough. 

Heading for the waiting area near intensive care isn't a conscious choice. He and Harry spent so long there waiting while Mum was in with Dad that he seems to simply gravitate there. When someone calls his name, he fully expects it to be his father's doctor. 

It's Greg. 

"How the hell did you find me?" John demands. 

At roughly the same time, Greg says, "What are you doing here? Are you okay?" 

They stare at each other. John is trying to come up with some question that will make things clearer, when another man walks over and pats Greg's shoulder. 

"You've got someone to drive you home after all?" the new man says. "Good lad. Get some rest and try not to worry." 

Greg starts walking, and so John does too. When they're in the lift, Greg reaches past him to push the button for the parking garage, and his suit jacket gapes open. There's blood all down the front of Greg's shirt. 

"Shit, what happened?"

"My DI got shot. Do you want a ride home?" Greg laughs, barely a breath. "I mean, to the library." 

"Keys," John says, and holds out his hand. 

"What?"

"That man obviously thinks you need someone to drive you home. Well, you've got someone. So give me your keys." 

Greg blinks slowly at him until the lift dings and the doors open. The noise seems to shake him out of the blank stare he's fallen into. He hands John his car keys and walks away, leaving John to follow. 

He's moving so fast, John nearly has to jog to keep up. In the car, Greg lapses into silence again, staring out the window. 

"Is-- Is he going to be okay? Your DI?" 

"She. They don't know yet. She came through the surgery all right, at least."

"Were you there?" 

Greg nods. He's still looking out the window. John can see the reflection of his face; his eyes are closed. 

"Do you want to get a pizza? I'll buy," John offers. It seems a bit inadequate, but he has no idea what else to say. _I'm sorry_ is definitely not going to cut it. 

Greg looks round at him and lets out an almost silent laugh. "Yeah. All right. Pizza would be good." 

John runs into Pizza Paul's and gets a large while Greg waits in the car. The air inside smells of garlic and yeast and basil. It's so warm that all the windows are steamed up, and the streetlights shine through the haze with a golden glow. 

John sits on a stool and waits for his order, ETA ten minutes. He knows the girl behind the counter vaguely, and they chat about the cold, how good the pizza smells, the book she's reading, which is something on the topic of artificial intelligence that he doesn't understand at all. 

It's like Pizza Paul's has wrapped him in a tiny bubble of warmth and normality. It's only been a bit over a week, but he'd almost forgot what this felt like, just chatting with strangers and getting decent food. And, maybe, the fact that he's doing it to help someone else is a factor as well. For all the charm of his current situation, he's perfectly happy to get back out to Greg when the pizza's ready. 

It makes the car smell like the shop did, like John's taken his bubble of normality away with him. Greg's expression lightens a bit, and he twists around to lift the lid. 

"Olives and pepperoni?"

"And extra garlic." 

"It's like you're psychic." 

They're quiet for a few minutes, driving through rain that's showing a disturbing tendency to freeze to the windshield. 

"Why were you there?" Greg asks quietly. "I know it wasn't to drive me home."

John thinks about lying, but he's done nothing else since it happened, and he's so tired of it. "I tried to see that therapist. It...didn't go well." 

"No?" 

John shrugs. He doesn't really want to talk about that part. Not yet, at least. "I sort of fainted," he says, instead. 

"What, during the appointment?" 

"No, before. That was why I went. Well. And the dream. And. I might be failing organic chemistry a little. And." He swallows. "Sorry. You don't need to hear all this." 

"Tell me. Start from the beginning." 

To his surprise, John does, starting with the broken lamp. It takes the rest of the drive to Greg's flat and a quarter of the pizza. He leaves out the part about clutching Greg's jacket like a teddy bear, but since he's actually wearing it, Greg probably has his suspicions. John almost doesn't care anymore. By the time he's done, he's too exhausted for embarrassment. 

He's surprised how much there is to say, and how tired it makes him, and he's abruptly glad he didn't get the appointment with the therapist. If talking about what happened after is this bad, he can't imagine talking about the actual--event. 

"Eat," Greg says, nudging the pizza box toward him and handing him a Coke. "What about the dream?" 

Oh, yeah. He left that bit out too. 

"You said that was why you went," Greg prompts. 

John shakes his head. Yes, it was why he went. No, he doesn't want to talk about it. Ever.

"Dreams are just dreams, y'know." Greg flips channels and settles on another nature show, this one involving snow leopards. 

"Are these things all you watch?"

"They're interesting. I like to learn stuff. It's not like we get to pick what we dream about, is my point." 

"But it's still...part of who we are." 

"Maybe. But you can't take it literally."

"Did you watch a _documentary_ on it or something?" John snaps. 

"I did, actually, yeah. But I also had to see a shrink a few times after this case last year. The nightmares were pretty bad." 

"Oh." John fidgets with his napkin, rolling the corners into little points. "How bad?" 

Greg puts his pizza slice down carefully. "It was-- The case was a serial killer. Doing bad things to kids. You don't need to know what, no one needs that in their head." He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "In the dreams, it was me. Doing those things. It got so I couldn't hardly sleep at all. My DI picked up on it finally and made me go and talk to Dr Piper." 

"The same DI as..."

"Yeah. Gregson. Not much gets past her."

"So...what did the doctor say?" 

"He said it was probably because I felt guilty about not saving them all. Like I was responsible. And that it wasn't that uncommon."

"That...makes sense, I guess?" 

Greg nods and picks up his pizza again. "It helped. It always helps to have a reason." 

John finds it almost ridiculously comforting just to think there might _be_ a reason, even without knowing what it is. He watches the snow leopards on the screen, the way they move, the way they stare at the camera as if they know it's there, though presumably the documentary people are shooting from a safe distance so as not to become dinner. 

It's unnerving. Their eyes are so pale, and they're still the only flashes of color in the odd, faraway landscape, all snow and rocks and strangled trees that can't stand upright for the wind. It looks like a battlefield. John wishes he were there and then wonders if, someday, he might be. They must take doctors on expeditions like that. 

"We can fix the chemistry exam, at least," Greg says, while the snow leopard slinks after some sort of mountain goat. 

"What? How?" 

"I'll talk to your professor." 

"No!"

Greg rolls his eyes a bit. "I'll tell him you were a witness, all right? Ongoing murder investigation, can't discuss it, blah blah. If he doesn't offer to let you do the exam over, I'll be very surprised." 

John stares at him. "You're going to lie for me?" 

Greg's quiet so long that John has to wonder what he's thinking. Something to do with his injured DI, possibly. Probably. 

"Lies are tools," Greg says, at last. "I'm going to fix what I can. There's not much I can do right now, but I can do this." 

They watch the rest of the show and finish the pizza down to the crusts (John's father calls them pizza bones; all his dogs love them). John is properly full for the first time in a week. He wonders exactly how lucky he is that it was Greg who found him that night, at that precise moment. 

"Stay the night," Greg says. 

John shakes his head automatically. "I should go. I'm fine, honestly." 

"Yeah. Well. I'm not." 

John hesitates, but Greg actually does look pretty terrible. He hasn't even changed his shirt. The blood's dried all rusty brown. Also, John badly wants to stay. It's not hard to talk himself into it. 

"All right. I'll take the sofa though. And go take a shower. I'll make tea." 

Greg comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam about the time the tea's finished brewing. He's toweling his hair dry, bare-chested, jeans hanging low on his hips. John looks him over automatically, as he would any half-naked, good-looking bloke. Normally, however, he wouldn't have to look away and hold onto the edge of the counter. 

"All right?" Greg says, stopping where he is. 

John can hear him, but he can also hear Aiden. _"Don't stop, keep going, make him come."_ The look on Aiden's face that night, and a month before when he caught John checking him out in the showers, which he shouldn't have done, he knew that. It was wrong. Bad manners at the very least. Maybe if he hadn't... 

John swallows. "Tea's ready," he says. 

Greg gets the milk and fixes his tea, towel draped now around his shoulders. John looks at the fake wood grain of the worktop and listens to the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mug as he stirs. 

"Do you want to tell me about it?" 

"About what," John mutters.

Greg doesn't reply, which is both understandable and pretty maddening. John wraps the string of his tea bag around one finger and watches the tip turn faintly purple before he releases it. 

"They made me--" But he can't finish, and he's said it so quietly he's not even sure Greg heard that much. 

Greg doesn't say a word, just keeps on stirring his tea. 

He'd said yes, at the end. Literally asked for it. Like Ewan had said. John can't stop thinking about it, except it's nothing like real thought, or even like memory. It's just a replay, over and over, like a scene from an especially bad horror film, the sort that lingers for weeks and makes you afraid of the dark, or the woods, or mirrors. Like his brain pulling at a loose thread, or picking at a scab. 

"I-- I said--" That ends in silence, too. 

After a pause, Greg says, "It wasn't your fault." 

"You don't know what happened." 

"Doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault." 

"He asked if I'd suck him off and I did it! I did it with all of them watching! Did you even know I-- Oh, god." What was he thinking? Greg probably didn't know he was bi. Greg probably thought he was some poor little innocent straight boy and now-- 

"I didn't know, but I did guess." 

John turns to stare at him. "...How?"

"I think it was the way you talked about the lube." 

John laughs at that. He can't help it, though it's probably not funny. "What? How did I talk about the lube?" 

"Dunno really. Familiarly? Most kids your age are still wanking with hand cream."

"I'm not a kid!" He's been saying that since he was four, and getting older has actually only made it worse. He's short and baby-faced and regularly gets mistaken for a sixth-former. Or younger. However, judging from Greg's amused expression, he's not really helping his case. 

"I'm almost thirty, and you're still at school. You're a kid, trust me." 

"Oh, fine. Whatever, Mr Tough Copper, with your Honda Civic and your nature shows." 

Greg snorts. "Go get the spare duvet. Hall closet. And show some respect for your elders." 

It's absurd to feel so joyful over a bit of teasing, but John does anyway. Elated, almost. Like Pizza Paul's, it's a little pocket or normality, proof that it's at least possible for things to be better than they are. 

"I can't find it," he calls from the hallway. 

"What? It's right in front." 

"Oh, got it! Sorry, your Zimmer frame was in the way." 

"You're hilarious." The delivery is flat, but Greg's clearly trying not to smile as he helps John spread the duvet out on the sofa. 

John rolls himself up in it when Greg has retreated to the bedroom. It's warm and smells clean, and John thinks he has at least a fair chance of sleeping through the night. He shuts his eyes. 

*

It's not a nightmare that wakes him up. It's a noise. A crash and a muffled thump. He's sitting upright and staring into the darkness, heart hammering. After a few seconds, his brain starts to sort out what he heard. It came from Greg's room. 

A moment later, Greg's door opens, and Greg stumbles into the bathroom and flips the lights on. John stays where he is at first, watching the wedge of yellow light spill out onto the floor. Maybe Greg wants to be alone? When he thinks about it, John actually finds that quite hard to believe. 

He wraps the duvet around his shoulders and drags it with him to the bathroom door. When he pushes it open, he finds Greg sitting on the edge of the tub in the hunched-over, hands-in-hair position John's grown so familiar with. 

"If you drink enough coffee, you could probably manage not to sleep again until the day after tomorrow."

Greg lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "I know. Believe me, I know."

John sits beside him on the edge of the tub and drapes a fold of the duvet over Greg's knees. Greg puts his hands over his face. They sit like that a while, John watching their reflection in the angled shaving mirror bolted into the wall. He can see half his face and part of Greg's ear.

"Did you know," he says, "that the real reason van Gogh cut off his ear was because he was painting a self portrait and couldn't get it right? The ear, I mean. So he cut it off. End of problem." 

Greg rubbed at his eyes and sniffed a bit. "Is that really true?"

"No idea. That's what someone told me. I like it though." 

"Oh, yeah. Me too. Nice, direct solution." 

John snickers. So does Greg, though he sounds like it might turn to tears at any moment. 

"Twilight Zone's on in a few minutes," John says. He has the TV schedule more or less memorized from 2am to 7am. "I could make more tea." 

"All right. But only two episodes, and then we're both going back to sleep." 

"Speak for yourself. If I stay up, I won't have any nightmares tonight at all." 

"You won't have any decent sleep, either. Come on." 

They make their way back to the sofa, John somewhat hampered by the duvet, which wants to wrap around his ankles and trip him up. They sit at opposite ends and pull their feet up, duvet spread over both of them. Two episodes turn into four. John never does make the tea, and without the caffeine, he can't make it to five. 

When he wakes, it's morning. Greg is still at the other end of the sofa, twisted around, head tipped back over the arm. It does not look comfortable. John pokes him with his toe until he wakes up with a snort. 

"Wha?" 

"Morning. Mission sleep-through-the-night successfully accomplished." 

"Christ, my neck." Greg groans, heaving himself into a sitting position. "Speak for yourself. I think I died in my sleep. Didn't you promise me tea about five hours ago?" 

"Right. Tea, coming up." 

After tea, and more poached eggs on toast, and showers, they go to talk to John's organic chemistry teacher. He does agree to let John retake the exam, or, well, a harder version of it that he'll write up and have ready by next week, but John's fine with that. As long as he can get some sleep and not drift off in the middle of it again, he'll be fine. 

Right now, in daylight, as they walk together out of the building, John feels like _everything_ will be fine. Of course, that's when he sees Adrian and Jamie walking down the street toward them. 

They haven't seen him yet. John wants to turn and go the other way. To be more accurate, he wants to turn and run. All he manages to do is stop dead. 

Greg stops beside him, and John would really like to-- Do anything but what he's doing. Anything but stand here like his feet are glued down and watch Adrian and Jamie come closer, watch Adrian catch sight of him and give Jamie a nudge, watch that unpleasant grin take over Jamie's face. 

And why, _why_ does it have to be now, when Greg's with him? Hearing how pathetic John's been over the past week is not the same as seeing it first hand, and John can't imagine this is going to be anything but painfully humiliating. He can't move, he has no idea what he could possibly say, and just the thought of Adrian's smug voice makes him feel physically ill. 

"Easy," Greg murmurs, and adopts a sort of slouch, hands stuck deep in his pockets. "Got to do it sooner or later." 

John can't reply. There is only room in his head for a sort of hamster-in-a-wheel panic and for a blanket hatred that this is his life now, that this is something he has to deal with. It's _not fucking fair._

"Johnny, you missed the match," Adrian says, coming right up close, so close John can smell the coffee on his breath and see the fine threads of his hair sticking out from under his woolly hat. 

"We won," Jamie adds. "No thanks to you."

"Too busy finding yourself a new boyfriend?" Adrian's eyes slide sideways to Greg. 

"I-- How-- " John can't even form sentences, apparently. His palms are sweaty, and his face is hot, and his throat has clenched up so tightly that even vomiting no longer seems like a real possibility. All he can do is stand there. He can _smell_ the new varnish on Tim's floor like he's there this second, can feel the weight and heat of Jamie's body holding him down, and they're both too close and he can't even make himself back up-- 

And then he's smelling faintly damp wool instead. Somehow, Greg has inserted a shoulder into the very small space between John and Adrian. His overcoat is navy blue and has three impossibly delicate snowflakes on it, like stars in a dark sky. John blinks at them and wonders what Greg's going to say. 

Nothing, apparently. He just stands there. His expression must be saying something though, because Adrian and Jamie both take a couple of steps back. 

John swallows hard. The air around him feels clearer. He swallows again and forces his hands to unclench. He wiggles his toes inside his shoes, just to prove to himself that the paralysis is fading. 

"Fuck off," he says. It's quiet and hoarse, and not especially eloquent, but it is exactly what he wants to communicate right now. 

Jamie sneers and leans in again. "Or what? You'll set your boyfriend on us?" 

"I'll do it myself," John says. He can see it: Jamie's face all bloody and bruised. He can feel the way it would make his knuckles ache. That would be a good feeling. "I'll hurt you." 

"Yeah, right." Jamie turns to Greg. "You know what you've hooked up with here? The whole team's had him." 

"Really?" Greg takes one hand out of his pocket and holds up his warrant card. "Thanks for the confession. That'll make things easier." 

Adrian goes pale and punches Jamie's shoulder. "Don't say anything." He turns to John. "Are you stupid? Everyone was right there. Everyone knew you wanted it. You got on your knees for Christian the fucking second he asked! You fucking begged for it!" 

John can feel himself freezing up again, feel his pulse speed up until it's shaking his body, his hands, his vision. 

"He's been to hospital," Greg says. He sounds quite calm, almost bored. "They take photos and DNA evidence as a matter of course in these cases. The bruises were pretty spectacular. No one's going to believe that was consensual."

Adrian stares at John. "You little shit," he hisses. "You think you can fuck with my life like that? My future?" 

John shocks himself by laughing. It's unfortunately high and sounds more than a little unbalanced. It makes everyone stare at him, even Greg. "Only if I fail organic chemistry," he says.

Adrian still looks scared. Jamie just looks baffled. Jamie is not all that bright. One too many knocks to the head in the scrum, possibly. 

"He's said he won't press charges," Greg says. "Yet. I'm working on that. But you should know there will be no problem prosecuting this if he changes his mind." He pauses, and smiles. It's not a nice smile. "And I'm sure I don't need to add that if he has any further trouble, we'll know exactly where to look." 

Jamie's face is going red with anger. "You can't _believe_ this little queer! Jesus, he practically threw himself at--"

"Shut up, Jamie," Adrian hisses, and then he's shoving Jamie away down the street, back the way they came. 

John stands very still until they round the corner and disappear. 

"All right?" 

"I would really like to sit down," John says, carefully. 

"Bench." Greg nods to the one by the bus stop, a few yards away. 

They sit. 

"You are such a huge liar," John says, after a minute or two spent just remembering how to breathe properly. 

"You did go to hospital. Yesterday. They do take photos and DNA in cases like this. And I _will_ fucking well find those little bastards it they give you any more trouble."

He sounds grim, and when John risks a glance at his face, he looks ready to strangle someone. 

John frowns down at his own feet in their grubby trainers. The snow is coming down in almost invisible, sparkling flakes, melting as soon as it hits the ground. Somehow, Greg still doesn't think it was his fault. 

"How about Chinese?" Greg says. 

"I should go home." 

"Why?" 

John looks up at him. "What do you mean, why?" 

"I mean you don't want to. Do you?" 

"Sure. I mean, of course. I've got stuff to do." 

There's a long silence. John would swear he can hear the snowflakes settling onto the pavement, whisper quiet. 

"No," he admits, finally.

"Right. And I don't want you to. So how about Chinese?" 

"You can't just-- It's not that simple! I should go home and-- and do what I'm supposed to do and not depend on you for every damn thing! God, aren't you sick of the sight of me by now?" 

"Nope." 

"Why not? I am." 

Greg's quiet for a moment, thumb rubbing at his jawline. "You want the absolute truth?" he says, finally. 

"Yes." 

"If you go on your merry way, that leaves me sitting at home alone wondering if she'll wake up or if I'll be going to her funeral next week. That's pretty crap as far as motives go, I know. But there you are."

John blinks at him. "Don't you-- Wouldn't you rather have a friend stay with you?" 

"Would _you?"_

"It's not the same. You're-- I mean, it's different." 

"That's generally what 'not the same' means." 

"Oh, shut up. Yours is-- You could tell anyone that."

"Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I don't especially enjoy pity."

John chews his lips for a second. "I don't pity you," he says. 

"And I don't pity you. Now can we please go get some lunch?" 

John nods and follows Greg back to the car. He feels uncertain, and more than a little out of his depth. Greg stomps ahead of him, head bent into the wind. 

"Sorry," Greg says, when they've been driving for a few minutes. "I shouldn't unload all that shit on you. It's not fair." 

"I'd a lot rather worry about your problems than mine." John winces. "That's awful. Sorry. Your friend's hurt and I'm--"

"No, it's-- That's exactly what I'm doing. Worrying about you instead of-- Fuck." 

John smiles a little. "So, I guess that means you don't want to tell me what happened." 

Dead silence. 

"Right, okay. Chinese, you said?" 

"It was my fault."

John glances at him, but Greg's face is completely blank. "How do you figure that?" 

"I knew that alley was a dead end. If I'd just thought for two seconds..." He shakes his head. 

"Alley?" 

Greg frowns, opens his mouth, shuts it again. "Oh, fine. Short version. We were chasing this kid with a gun. He ran into an alley, and I ran after him. There was no way he could've got out, I should've just-- But anyway. He was already shooting when I came around the corner. She knocked me out of the way." 

"How's that your fault?"

"I should've remembered it was a dead end." 

"You still would've had to go in there and get him eventually, right?"

"She got shot because I'm an idiot." 

"She got shot because he shot her. Look, you do realize the irony of telling me it wasn't my fault and then insisting this _is_ your fault, when it's obviously not?" 

Greg glares at him. 

"I'm just saying." 

"My therapist was a lot nicer than this," Greg says. 

"I'm nice. Ask anyone." 

Greg smiles a little, and sighs. "It doesn't matter, you know. You telling me. Must be frustrating as hell for therapists. They have to wait for people to get it on their own." 

"You keep telling me anyway." 

"I'm not a doctor. I don't have that sort of patience." 

John fidgets with a loose thread on his jacket cuff. Greg's jacket cuff. He coughs, throat suddenly sandpaper-dry. "What they said about me... It was true. I did that, at the beginning. I thought it would be fun and--" He can't finish. 

"Not your fault," Greg says quietly. 

"I thought it would be _fun_." He can feel tears pricking hotly at his eyes and presses his hands over them. "Why was I so _stupid?_ You know, I knew it might go wrong, I did it _because_ it might go wrong, because I've always got to take a fucking chance. I can't ever play it safe." 

The car slows and stops. 

"Playing it safe doesn't always help, John. I know it might be easier to think you could've done something different and it wouldn't have happened, but...you can't actually know that. We never know that." He pauses. "You do know those little shits will never amount to anything, right?" 

"I'm pretty sure Adrian's going to be richer than god by the time he's thirty." 

"I mean really amount to anything. They'll never do a thing worth doing." 

"And you think I will?" 

"Yeah. I do. In fact, I'm pretty damn sure of it. Now get out. We're going to eat noodles and deep fried things." 

"And then we're going to St Bart's." 

Greg hesitates, and then nods very slightly. "Yeah. All right." 

*

They eat. They go to check up on Greg's DI, who has at least woken up from her surgery, although she's asleep again now. Greg isn't allowed in to see her anyway, and he looks a bit relieved about it. 

"All right?" John asks him as they walk out. 

"She's my DI. She's not supposed to be..." 

"Human?" 

Greg elbows him gently. "Shut it. I'll go to see her when they let me. It's just, it'll be weird, that's all." 

"Do you _like_ her?" 

"Course I like her. What are you on about?" But his cheeks are just a little pinker than they were a second ago. 

John smirks. "Someone's got a crush." 

"I do not." 

"You so do." 

Greg stares at him. "How the hell did you know? No one knows. Do not tell anyone!" 

John laughs out loud, and it feels easy and normal. "Just a guess, really. Something about your voice when you talk about her. I guess you haven't told her." 

"She's fifteen years older than me and married." 

"Ouch. Well, don't worry. Who would I tell?" 

" _No one,_ " Greg says, pointedly. 

It sets John laughing again.

When he remembers it later that night, on Greg's sofa, he thinks that the strangest thing about all of this is that life actually does go on. That there can be these small moments of happiness, even though in the next second he might have that horror-film loop playing in his head. That today he saw Adrian and Jamie and a few hours later he was _laughing_. That it was, despite everything, a pretty good day. 

A lot of that is because of Greg. John doesn't want to think how badly the encounter with Adrian and Jamie would've gone without him. He wonders, watching Greg cook pasta and steam broccoli, if they might get to be friends someday. 

"What do you want on this?" Greg says. "Garlic? Butter?" 

"Garlic and butter?" 

"Sounds good." 

"How come you can cook?" 

"What do you mean how come? I like to eat, that's how come." 

"You just taught yourself?" 

"Yeah. Got a cookbook, cooked the stuff in it. It's not like I'm making lobster or truffles every night. It's just pasta." 

"My mum always did all the cooking." 

"I think you could learn. It's not exactly organic chemistry." 

"It wasn't that hard!" John says, reflexively. "If people would just read the text, they'd be fine." 

Greg smiles at him through a cloud of steam as he drains the pasta. "Maybe you're just smarter than you think you are." 

"I dunno, I think I'm pretty smart." 

Greg laughs and goes back to cooking. 

*

John sleeps on Greg's sofa for a week. He goes home only to grab clothes and textbooks. He barely sees Harry. 

On Saturday night, he goes to collect the t-shirt and track suit bottoms that he never did return to Greg. He finds Harry sitting in the dark, waiting for him. 

"I thought you'd be out," he says, stopping just inside the doorway. 

"I know something's wrong," she says quietly. "I wish you'd tell me what happened." 

"Nothing happened. What are you talking about?" 

"You've basically moved out. I've barely seen you for two weeks. I'm supposed to be watching out for you." 

"Yeah, right. Go back to the pub, Harry. I'm fine." 

"God! You are always on about that. Are you this much fun with your friends?" 

His _friends_. "Yeah, sure. I'm the life of the fucking party." 

He stomps to his room, grabs Greg's things, and starts stuffing more clothes into a bag. He watches his hands, the way they go white at the knuckles when he grips shirts and pants and socks. He can feel the memories waiting, sort of off to one side, like a pit, and he thinks hard about toothpaste, soap, the holes in the heels of most of his socks. He really needs new ones. 

"Are you running away now?" Harry says. "Where are you sleeping? Did you get a girlfriend? Mum and Dad are not going to be happy if you're moving in with some girl. Oh my god! Did you get her _pregnant?"_

"No one's pregnant. Leave me alone." 

He can feel it building up, things pressing in on him, heart rate climbing. He needs to get out. 

Harry grabs his wrist. "Johnny, I'm really worried. Please tell me what's wrong." 

But all John can feel is the hard grip, fingers digging into his skin. All he can hear is Adrian's voice. _Johnny wanted some cock. We were just helping him out._

"Get away!" He pushes her, hears her back hit the wall, and runs. 

His bag thumps against his shoulder. His shoes slip on the wet pavement outside. He has no idea where he's going. 

There are people all around him. The lights are too bright, everything lit up red and pink and gold and green for the coming holidays. Giant snowflakes and stars and gaudy flashing bells. John ducks into a doorway and sits down on the low stone step. He puts his head between his knees and breathes. 

The cold air helps. Everything evens out after a little while: breath, pulse, nerves. Maybe it's a long while. He's not sure. 

His first thought, when he can think again, is that he could call Greg. Greg would come and get him and probably wouldn't even _mind_. That knowledge makes it possible to find a payphone and call Harry instead. 

When she answers, she sounds like she's been crying. "Johnny, god, where are you? What's wrong? Are you on drugs? Because I've taken drugs, okay, I know what it's like, I won't tell Mum!" 

"I'm not on drugs!" He takes a breath and counts as he lets it out. Eight seconds. "Can you pick me up?" 

"Of course! Where are you?" 

That takes a bit of time to work out, but eventually he's out of the phone booth and pacing in front of a high-end lingerie store, waiting. ("I got Clara's Christmas present there! I know right where it is." "I didn't need to know that, Harry.")

He doesn't especially need to spend ten minutes looking at bras and fancy knickers while Harry gets her shit together and navigates the maze of one-way streets to get here, either, but it does have one benefit. He finds he can ogle the mannequins with no trouble at all, no horror-film reel, nothing. It's not quite the same as looking at actual girls, of course, but it's something. 

He stares at a black lace corset and discovers he's been really quite worried that he wouldn't ever want to have sex again, for as long as he lives. Or that he wouldn't be _able_ to, which would be worse. But people recover from these things. It's not life-ending. It'll just take a bit of time. Maybe a lot time, but even a lot of time isn't forever. 

He turns his back to the shop, lest he develop some weird mannequin fetish in a moment of mental weakness. He did like that film _Mannequin_ when he was younger. 

It's a ridiculous train of thought, and it makes him smile. He's smiling when Harry pulls up, and she looks so relieved that it makes his chest ache. 

They're both quiet on the ride back to Harry's flat. 

Harry's fidgeting, reaching for her smokes, which aren't there. Clara's asked her to quit, and she's trying. Clara's good for her, John thinks. Too bad they've already broken up twice in three months. It doesn't look likely to last. 

At the flat, Harry makes them both hot chocolate from packets, the sort with tiny dried marshmallows that disintegrate into a cap of sweet foam. They sit on the sofa and sip and get marshmallow mustaches. 

John tries to think. He can't tell her the truth, but he's got to tell her something. He wishes, just a tiny bit, that he could tell her. But this isn't how Harry is normally. She doesn't do the big sister thing unless she's really worried. By this time tomorrow, she'll be back to normal. And probably back to the pub as well. He can't trust her not to tell the _bartender_ , let alone their mum and dad. 

"I got jumped," he says, finally. "These guys I know. They roughed me up and said...stuff."

She bites her lip. "Stuff?" 

"Just stuff, okay? You asked what happened. I told you. There." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Yeah, so am I." 

She scoots closer and puts an arm around him. It's nice. She smells like coconut shampoo and fabric softener and Clara's perfume. He puts his head on her shoulder, and she scratches his head lightly with her nails. 

"Johnny--"

He can't quite stop the flinch. She stops short and bites her lip. 

"Can you not call me that anymore? Please?" John says. 

"Did they-- Was this some sort of gay bashing?" 

"Where did you get that from? And I'm not gay." 

"You're short and smart and you wear shirts with buttons on. For some people, that's all it takes." 

He snorts a little. "I don't know. Doesn't matter, does it?" 

"Mum's still going to call you that." 

"I know. I'll be okay by then." He's got to be okay by then. He can't be freaking out and running off when his mum pulls him in for a hug. He seems okay with Harry so far, at least. 

"Maybe you're going about it the wrong way. Maybe I should call you Johnny all the time, so you get, like, desensitized to it. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny--

He pokes her in the side. "Harry!" 

"Yes, Johnny?" 

"You're a horrible sister," he says, and hugs her. 

She rested her chin on top of his head. "You too. The very worst."

"I'm not your sister." 

"Could've fooled me. Why do you smell like jasmine?" 

"Because Greg's mum got him shower gel for Christmas and he's too cheap to replace it. I told him people could smell it." 

"Greg? Who's Greg?" 

"He's--a friend. I've been sleeping on his sofa."

"A friend." She pulls back and eyes him. "Johnny, _are_ you gay?"

"I just said I wasn't." 

"Yeah, but you didn't sound that convinced about it." 

"Look, maybe at some point in the past I have, you know, with, with-- Do we really have to talk about this? I like girls, and Greg is definitely not my boyfriend. I think that covers all the relevant points, don't you?" 

"Sure. Johnny." 

He rolls his eyes, but she might actually be right about this. His mum does and will always call him that, and getting used to it before he goes home is not the stupidest idea ever. 

"Did you see a doctor?" 

"It wasn't that bad. I didn't need a doctor." 

"I bet Clara could get you an appointment with someone really good." 

"Good at _what?_ Bruises? That's all I've got, and they're going. I like Clara already, you know, you don't have to keep talking her up." 

"I'm practicing for when we get home." 

"But you already told them about... You're bringing her home for Christmas, aren't you. Without telling Mum. She is going to have a fit." 

"If I tell her, she'll find some way to stick us in separate bedrooms! She'll probably make me sleep in your bunk beds. Ugh." 

John shrugs. It's true. "I'm only saying, she'll have a fit. She'll say there's not enough food." 

"There's enough food to feed all of Scotland." 

"Well, yeah. But she'll still say it." 

They're quiet a minute. 

"Are you staying here tonight?" Harry says. She glances at John and then away, sipping her hot chocolate. "I mean, you know, you should do what you want." 

John smiles a little. "Yeah. I'll stay." 

*

Harry's still asleep when John stumbles out of his room at five in the morning, propelled by nightmares. Clara is awake, though, and sitting on the sofa, feet pulled up, blanket draped around her. 

"Harry told me," she says. 

"I knew she would." 

"She can't keep a secret." Clara smiles, like that's some endearing little eccentricity that doesn't have the power to completely ruin John's life. If he were stupid enough to tell her anything important. 

"I know." 

"Nightmares?" 

"Yes," John says, shortly. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and drinks half of it in one go. He grades his nightmares on a curve these days. While the one tonight was bad, at least it was directly about what happened. Reliving it, second for second, is not fun, but it's also not his father--doing those things to him. _Raping_ him. 

He clutches his orange juice hard, concentrating on the smooth chill of the glass, on the way his fingers slide in the condensation. 

"I brought biscuits," Clara offers. "Chocolate ones. They're on the counter by the toaster." 

John swallows hard, finishes his juice, and takes one. "Why are you up?" he says. 

"Same reason." 

He sits on the sofa, at the opposite end from the one she occupies. "Do you want to talk about it?" he says. It seems polite to offer. 

She looks at him for a long time, so long that John lowers his eyes and concentrates on nibbling around the edge of his biscuit. 

"I was raped when I was seventeen," she says, finally. "Did Harry tell you that?" 

He stares. Can't help it. "No. She never-- She never said anything like that." 

"I still dream about it sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. I told her after I almost gave her a black eye in my sleep." 

John lets out a breath of startled laughter. "You-- Why are you telling me?

"You asked. And I don't think it should be some deep, dark secret. It wasn't my fault, after all." She flashes him a quick smile. "Anyway, I'm glad you're up. I wanted to talk to you. There's this programme at Bart's." 

An hour later, he goes back to bed with his mind reeling. 

*

He knocks on Greg's door, t-shirt and track suit bottoms clutched to his chest. 

Greg answers, looking bleary. He smiles when he sees John. "Oh, good," he says. "You can make me tea." 

John rolls his eyes and pushes in past him. "I'm not your personal tea maker," he says, heading for the kettle. 

"You won't regret it. I smell too awful to talk to anyone before I shower." 

Greg shuffles off to the bathroom while John makes tea and then, feeling ambitious, toast as well. He cuts it into strips like Greg did that first night. 

"You look happy," Greg says, when they're both settled on the sofa. He sounds surprised. 

"I suppose I am." 

"What's happened?" 

"I'm going to Africa. To Chad. St Bart's has a deal with a clinic there, a sort of exchange program. It's mostly fourth or fifth year medical students, but Clara-- Harry's girlfriend--" He frowns. "Harry's my sister. Did I tell you that? Anyway, Clara says they'll take me because I can fix their Land Rover. I guess it's pretty ancient." 

Greg blinks at him. "You can?" 

"My dad's a mechanic. I can't do anything with the new ones, you need computers to even find out what's wrong with them, but I'm pretty good with the old ones. I mean, I guess I won't get much medical experience, but at least I'll be useful, you know?" 

"That's great." Greg's smile is so warm. He looks happier than John's ever seen him. "Really. That's amazing. When do you leave?" 

"This summer. I wish it were sooner, but..." He shrugs. "I probably couldn't get out of school anyway. And maybe it's better. Less like I'm running away." He looks down at his toast strips. "I-- I think I'll be okay. At some point. Thanks to you." 

Greg actually flushes a bit. "I didn't do much," he says. "I'm glad you talked to your sister. You did, right?" 

"I told her I got beat up. I think Clara knows though. She said she...got raped. When she was younger than me. She said she didn't think it should be a secret because she didn't do anything wrong." 

"Sounds like a sensible girl. You could talk to her. If you really won't go back to the therapist. Which, yeah, I understand." 

"I'll think about it. She's coming home with us for Christmas." 

"Good." 

"...Can I stay here tonight? I'll go back to Harry's after that. I have to, really. I need to pack. But. Just tonight?" 

"Anytime, John. I really mean that, all right? Actually, wait." He gets up to rummage in a drawer. After a second, he tosses John a set of keys. "There." 

John stares at them. 

"The weird shaped one is for the building door, other one for the flat." 

John stares at Greg. 

Greg settles on the sofa again and ignores him. 

"You can't give me keys."

"Funny. Thought I just had." 

"I mean-- I mean, why?" 

"So you've got somewhere to go if you need to. That's all." 

*

The next day, while he's packing, he finds an old chain and strings the keys onto it. He wears them under his shirt, next to his skin, even in the shower. He calls Greg a couple of times over the Christmas holidays. He learns that Greg's DI is recovering. Greg talks him through making a pasta dish that impresses even his mum. 

John tries not to bother him though, especially once he gets back to London. He has the keys. He has somewhere to go, somewhere safe. That's enough, most of the time, just knowing that. 

Sometimes it's not enough, and he sits on the edge of the tub at four in the morning, clutching the keys with one hand and his hair with the other. He imagines how Greg would sound if he called him, and that helps, but he doesn't want to call. He wants to be strong. He wants to be okay. 

By the time he gets on a plane for Faya-Largeau, Chad, it's a little easier. He almost calls Greg the night before, but they haven't spoken in months. John's so used to the weight of the keys around his neck that he forgets about them until the metal detector at the airport goes off. It feels strange to remove them, even for that short a time. 

He wears them constantly in Faya-Largeau, and after he gets home, and all through medical school. He wears them right up until he joins the Army, and, even then, he keeps them close. He makes up lies to tell the few people who catch a glimpse of them. They're from his girlfriend, or his mum, or they're the keys to the house he was born in. 

The night before he leaves for Afghanistan, he pulls them out of the drawer in his bedside table. He lets them hang from one finger. He's been sent to dangerous places before, but probably none as dangerous as this. It makes him think more than he really wants to. 

He lost track of Greg on purpose. Only part of it, he knows now, was wanting to do it all on his own. Greg was a reminder, and he wanted to forget. As much as he ever could. It wasn't especially fair of him, or kind, but he's more willing to forgive himself at thirty-five than he was at nineteen. Maybe he can look Greg up when he gets home. He owes him much more than an apology, but at least he could start with that. 

The keys draw one more arc in the air, and then he lets them fall into one of the boxes slated for storage. He doesn't need them anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out my [original writing here](http://www.eleanorkos.com/) if you're interested.
> 
> [emungere.tumblr.com](http://emungere.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Reunited](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10663854) by [kmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmary/pseuds/kmary)




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